Quid Pro Quo
by Xxsweet-venom-kissxX
Summary: Sequel to "Look Down", although can be read on it's own. A two-part story in which an Auror reflects on the power-shifts within the Ministry and how her own morals stand against them as she watches innocents wither away in Azkaban. Taking action on her own, she gets caught by a group of Snatchers; they would all rather see her suffer, except their leader has a different plan.
1. Chapter 1

**Just a short two-parter; college is eating my life, and we're just going to blame this on looking over old stuff and getting an idea. Set during Deathly Hallows, a reflection on power-shifts and morals, ethics, etc. for the first bit. Very little dialogue until later on. You don't have to read "Look Down"; it helps set the dynamic for the next chapter and establishes the parallel, but it's not entirely necessary.**

**I don't own Scabior, but Rochelle is mine.**

* * *

The fall of the Ministry happened in a blur. The puppets replaced the real things just as quickly, turning the interior chaos loose on Wizarding Britain. Barely twenty-four hours had passed and Death Eaters and bounty-hunters were rounding up Muggleborns, half-bloods with iffy ideals, and anyone who stood in their way.

Inspector Rochelle had watched the cells empty of actual criminals, vicious men and women who would do unspeakable harm to whoever hands could be laid on; in their places were gentle souls, scared.

The night shifts were terrible.

She was used to the screaming and crying when it was from those who deserved it, a perverse sense of humor and justice taking over and rationalizing it for her. These were the people she worked to protect, the very reason she was so adamant to have become an Auror in the first place. Co-workers at first, and then the occasional name she saw, a son or daughter who was the spitting image of his or her parents when they were in school. Complete strangers who insisted they had done no wrong, why were they here.

The only difference was she _knew _and _believed _them.

When the first group was brought in, she was stuck working overnight. When the warden found her in her office the next morning, curled up under her desk with bloodshot eyes and a runny nose, he said nothing. He helped her up and spelled away any trace she had of crying herself to sleep. He looked like he hadn't even slept himself. He was lucky to keep his position, as was she, but they both knew a strong face had to be put on.

Eventually, as always, the screaming and the crying stopped. She watched lives wither before her eyes; barely the start of autumn and already she knew some would not make it through until the end of the year. They probably didn't want to anyway.

Azkaban had done its toll on her, making her harsh and terribly single-minded. She was, in all probability, a liability put off to the side because they needed someone who knew how to work in the prison. She supposed the warden put in a word for her as well, as much as his word was worth nowadays.

She had found one of the patrolling Aurors giving extra food to an inmate; when he tried to explain, she said nothing except to do what he thought best.

Her role was to the protection of the public, she reminded herself. The public had simply shifted and society changed, so the needs were different. Rationalization only went so far, but it helped her keep her composure and professionalism and ultimately, her pay.

It didn't stop her from thinking about how wrong all of this was, looking the other way when she didn't have to. She did see flaws with Fudge's mindset (how the hell could he have denied anything when it was right in front of his face), and knew anyone who ended up in Azkaban deserved, on some level, to be there.

Rochelle saw more of the previous inmates than she expected to; they were hired as Snatchers, and she was more than aware of the threats and looks she received while at the Ministry. It did not escape her attention the people around her would more than love to see her suffer for the misery she caused for them. The people outside of Azkaban that knew her looked at her with pity or hate, and the people inside barely looked at anyone.

The question of _why_ seemed to rise frequently as of late; why continue working for a corrupt government covering for a pureblood tyrant hell-bent on murdering a child? Why stay in England; she had no family left to worry about? Why were innocent people being caught up in the chaos?

She didn't care about how things came to be the way they were; teenagers either under the care of Death Eaters at Hogwarts or on the run with Snatchers on their tails, everyone ducking their heads and scurrying along, eyeing neighbors with careful glances. It was every man for himself.

_How _was something she didn't give two shits about. Nothing happens without a reason.

She decided she would rather fight and probably die for the side she always believed in than perpetuate the system further. An owl was sent to the Ministry in resignation, and another sent to her boss; the letters told two different stories and the latter was promptly burned as soon as it was read.

The harsh wilderness around her was a comfort; if it was easier than Azkaban's winds and battering waves, she would have thought it worthwhile to go back. Rochelle had no idea where she would go, and no one to travel with. Traveling alone was a bad idea, but it was her only idea. Putting her training to use, she came across groups who actually had destinations, and acted as a body-guard; protecting the side she believed in.

Snatcher incidents were more frequent than she liked. Rochelle began to understand how they were tracking them, and even if she came across as a protective hen, she'd much rather know her efforts bought them a little time than give them a breadcrumb trail to a reward.

She had been caught in the start of winter, staying behind to let the others, a family of underage siblings with dead parents, run to meet a Portkey out of the country. It didn't take long for her to place almost all of the faces of the Snatchers. Fenrir Greyback had never had much of an effect on her when there were bars between them during his brief time. He had slammed her against a tree, and even though she tried to control her breathing, her heart raced at a pace she didn't know existed. Sharp teeth grazed her neck, murmurs of a slow and painful punishment for her arrogance and abuse of power meeting her ears.

"Tha's enough, Greyback. We need 'er in one piece for now."

A large hand grabbed her and whacked her against the tree again, knocking her out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to those who followed this. Review if you can, that'd be great. This is it, it's much, much longer than the first chapter, and I didn't expect it to be. So, thank you guys for reading, and I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

She woke up in a tent, a lantern on a small table the only source of light. Her head throbbed and even eye-movement seemed to make it worse. Moving her hands around, she realized she was on a cot, a slightly better alternative than the floor. Smell told her this wasn't Greyback's tent; it smelled dirty, but not as much as Greyback himself did. Sleep seemed a much better option than trying to get up-a wave of nausea overcame her if she even tried sitting up. She was in no shape to fight. And she needed to be.

As she began drifting off, she heard light footsteps, obviously a habit from tracking and hunting, and the tinkering of glass, as if bottles were being laid out. The person retreated after a pause, sealing the canvas as he or she left.

She dared open an eye to find two tiny bottles of potions, the colors pale and shimmering. Healing potions. How odd.

* * *

Most of the men had been sent away; he could trust them to do what needed to be done. Greyback gave a glare, but grudgingly followed orders.

The Auror wasn't his, even though he had ordered her to be placed in his tent. She wasn't anyone's. Inspector Rochelle was worth a fair amount of Galleons now since she began aiding the runaways, but still not worth what other war criminals were. Typically, they'd have their fun with the women they found and kill them if they weren't worth more alive.

Scabior rationalized it as sparing them the humiliation of a great number of things.

The war had been kind to them, giving them a purpose and a calling. Azkaban had to be used for the traitors, who had chances of being reconditioned, and the filthy Muggleborns. The criminals were given jobs to find the scum of the new society, and they got to stay out of Azkaban. Money, booze, cheap women, warm lodgings. They were simple men, really.

Rochelle would have been a good asset to their side, if she ever changed her mind. He recalled thinking her one-mindedness had its uses, and sometimes he could use someone who actually had the conviction to believe their ideas. Intelligence was lacking, and sometimes it was a necessity out in the middle of nowhere. She would be useful after the war, too, for that same reason.

Irony was not lost on him. _And probably not on 'er either_, he mused as he threw a log into the campfire.

Their places had switched. He now had power over her, a lot of it. The only question was what to do with it.

She wasn't a huge threat out here, and only worth a few nights in a nearby pub. Better than their current money situation, but the men would burn through it as soon as it hit their hands. A potential asset, but he knew she'd never change her mind.

Determination's fire had never left her eyes, and it had caught him slightly off-guard to find her all the way out here.

Scabior cursed under his breath and dug through a pack left nearby for potions.

He entered his tent quietly, and placed the two bottles on the table for when she decided to wake up. Her breathing wasn't even-she had woken up and was trying to fall back asleep, her brow creased in pain. A likely concussion, from the force Greyback used.

Four years hadn't changed either of them much. He spotted a small streak of dark hair beginning to grow grey, but no, nothing much had changed. A part of him still hated her for the way she treated him and the numerous other people who passed through Azkaban, but she had granted him parole in the first place. Would he still have been here, in this position, without having been able to make a name for himself through his tracking skills, parole aside? He did owe something to that day he was granted freedom again.

He turned and left as quietly as he came, hearing footsteps in the distance. The others would be back shortly.

* * *

The headache had ebbed enough for her to sit up and the room to stay stationary. Fingers grasped the potion bottles, and turned them over. A cure for pain and a pepper-up potion, the latter grey with speckles of black. She did wonder why Snatchers would want her in a better condition; torture, usefulness, death. If she was in better condition, she could at least fight. Maybe they wanted her to.

Rochelle uncorked the pain reliever and downed it as best she could.

"So that's what it's like to not have a headache…" she muttered.

She took a look at her surroundings, hidden more in the darkness of night than it was previously. A bedside table, a small stove, a small half-bath with a sink in an alcove, a tiny desk and chair. She heard a fire crackling outside, the light flickering into the tent entrance. There were hushed voices, footsteps breaking twigs.

Rochelle got to her feet, and wandered around the small space, trying to gather what information she could in the terrible lighting. Papers were strewn over the desk with names, dates, locations, numbers.

The snatcher here was someone who kept track of what they did, and someone of rank.

"Anyone ever tell ya it's not polite to look through other people's things, Inspector?"

Damn. She hadn't even heard him.

"If you don't want them seen, you should hide them if you have a prisoner in the same room. They're simply out in the open."

The clothes were a change from the Azkaban stripes, but she'd know that voice anywhere. He looked human, as opposed to a gaunt, emaciated ghost she saw long ago.

If she had spoken that way, cocky and confident, to an actual Auror, she'd have a wand in her face in no time. Scabior merely shook his head and stepped further into the tent. "As if it makes sense to someone like you 'less you know the system."

She moved away from the desk and crossed her arms, facing him. "Umbridge told me, told all of us actually, about Snatcher immunity from the law. Well, mostly; unless you defect, you're left alone."

"Pissed ya off, dinn't?"

Rochelle wanted to wipe that stupid grin off of his face with a good jinx, but her wand was not with her. Her fist would do just as well, but probably better not to bite that hand that feeds…

She stayed silent, the best mechanism she had for hiding her anger.

"I can get you outta 'ere if you play nice."

"Why do I get the feeling I might not like your version of playing nice?"

She stood rigid as he walked closer to her, too close for comfort. Fingers laced in her hair, tangled from the weeks without a decent way to brush it, and pulled, forcing her look up. "You won't unless you go 'long wit' the next five or ten minutes."

Well, at least whatever he had in store would be quick. Potentially not painless, but quick.

He pulled her by her hair towards the entrance, but she planted her feet as firmly as she could. "I'm not going anywhere you with, filthy Snatcher. Let me go."

He closed the little distance there was between them, and yanked her head up again. Yes, that fire hasn't left her eyes, purpose still blazing in them. She'd fight to her death if she had to, and they both knew it. He tried to soften his expression a bit, lower his voice; it was always scarier to whisper and look kind while uttering threats.

"Inspector, don' make me tell ya again. I'm your best shot at makin' it out of 'ere alive. Don' make me change me mind and throw ya to Greyback."

He hoped she understood the message underneath. She'd gotten him out of Azkaban, although through paperwork; he'd get her out of a situation she'd potentially not make it out of with reputation and sanity intact.

She sighed and muttered, "Fine," before being dragged out into the cool night.

The fire was lit, and a camp dinner being prepared. The other men sat in a circle of logs and stumps, drinking from their flasks and discussing details of things she never wanted to hear in her life. Their conversations turned to jeers as Scabior led her to an empty seat and proceeded to sit next to her, arm on her shoulder as if they were best friends.

She stared straight ahead, beyond the eyes watching her and into the dark forest. She knew humiliation was part of this, it had to be, so she'd endure it the best way she knew how. Silent as a statue and scare the living shit out of them when she spoke.

"The Inspector 'as complied to havin' dinner wit' us. Ain't that nice, gents?"

General chatter of agreement and a shake from the heavy arm did little to break her visual focus. The eyes of the men scared her, as if she could see their intentions in their irises. These men were thugs, terrible, heinous men who should not have been allowed to live after their sentences. They'd better without souls, if they even had any to begin with.

She didn't give them much credit in humanity.

A thank you escaped her lips as Scabior passed her a small bowl and a spoon to her, containing mushy potatoes and boiled meat. Not the best meal she had in the woods, and it showed on her face. A crack in her mask. Typically she could keep a stoic face, as she had previously. Her time out and living among people who truly knew pain and suffering was slowly breaking down the walls Rochelle spent years assembling in her mind.

"Not good enough for you, Inspector?" A nameless man asked, glaring at her; the one who made it, probably.

The venom in his voice only made her return the cold stare. She picked up a spoonful and shoved it in her mouth without breaking eye contact. "Perfectly fine," Rochelle replied after she swallowed.

It wasn't terrible. Flavorless, but hardly the worst she'd ever eaten.

He broke eye contact first; her concentration was broken by Scabior elbowing her in the ribs.

"You 'aven't change a bit, 'ave ya?"

Snickers went around the circle, understanding exactly what he meant. She never backed down from being challenged by anyone. Here, out of her element, among men who had no qualms about killing her and torturing her along the way, she still dared to keep her head up.

"Are you implying I should have?"

"Most 'ave. It's called adaptation, Inspector."

"Is _that _what it's called? I had no idea-I thought it was profiting at the expense of human lives."

She heard the slap before she even felt it. Pain seared through her cheek, her neck cracking as the bones followed the movement; she was definitely going to have a headache later. The men jeered again, laughed.

"Didn't I tell you to play nice?" Scabior hissed, but loud enough for the rest to hear. He wanted them to hear it, then.

"You never said how."

He grabbed a fistful of hair, forcing her back to her feet, her bowl having clattered to the forest floor when he hit her. She expected to be dragged as she was earlier. Instead, she was hoisted over his shoulder, where she kicked and thrashed, any way to return the pain he inflicted on her.

"'cuse us, gents. I'm gonna teach the Inspector 'ere a little lesson about the new order o' things."

She let out a growl of frustration at his attitude, so full of personal satisfaction and dozens of implications. Whistles and curses met her ears, someone wishing they could be the one to put her in her place.

The uneven ground meant Scabior's shoulder digging into her gut occasionally when he landed a footfall too hard. She had kept up the fighting for longer than necessary, and, realizing she might need her strength for later, stopped when the woods overtook them. The forest was dark, the eyes of animals flickering around them, some startled by the bright tip of Scabior's wand.

He turned around abruptly, her upper half swinging with the momentum, and deemed them far enough from camp. He leaned forward to let her down, and as soon as her feet met the ground, she threw her fist into his stomach.

Scabior, winded, doubled over. "Definitely 'aven't changed," he wheezed, throwing her a smirk.

"You deserved that."

"I deserve a great many things. Doesn't mean I should 'ave 'em." He said when he finally regained his ability to breathe. "You could 'ave ran."

"And risk you chasing after me again? I'd much rather fight and die than run away."

"An' that's yer problem, Inspector. You don't know when to back down."

He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew her wand, holding it out handle first. Meant he trusted her not to do anything rash with it pointed at him. He also pulled out a small drawstring purse containing a few days worth of small provisions.

Rochelle eyed him warily, taking the wand but giving the bag an equally untrusting look.

"'s not poison." He followed it with something that sounded like, "Aurors and their trust issues," under his breath.

"Why?"

She felt the tip of his wand jab into her cheek, agitating the swelling, bruising flesh. A warmth spread through the tissue and her pain was gone. Healed.

"Because as much as you 'ated me, you gave me a chance—"

"And look what you've done with that."

He glared at her, but continued. "You gave me a chance. Society doesn't work with parolees, yeah? Azkaban was 'ell, but you sent me back into the larger pit o' it. They look at ya and all they see is that yellow scroll in yer pocket. But you gave me freedom and don't make me change me mind about returnin' the gesture, alright?"

She was silent for a moment. "What will you tell them?"

"That I left you out 'ere barely conscious and without a wand or blanket."

She nodded. "Thank you, I think that's the right term…"

"S'possedly. Now go, do what you do best and protect the innocent, all that. I won't be so lenient next time."

"As if there'll _be _a next time."

In the shadows cast by _lumos,_ they could catch a ghost of a smile on the other's lips, an acceptance of a challenge. Rochelle turned, muttered _point me_, and hoped to find her way somewhere while the night still covered her.


End file.
